


Appendicitis

by Lyndsaybones



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 08:31:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyndsaybones/pseuds/Lyndsaybones
Summary: Tumblr inbox request for Scully having appendicitis.





	Appendicitis

It was easier than he expected, getting the cameras up and linked with the wifi. He got a little more sun than he intended. Scully’s gonna give him a hard time about not putting on sunscreen. 

The screen door squeals his return to the house and he drops to unlace his boots so he doesn’t track mud everywhere. 

“Didja get ‘em up?” Scully asks from the couch. 

“Yep,” he says as he peels out of his socks, tucking them inside the mouth of his left boot and leaving the whole sodden mess by the door. 

He rounds the couch and finds her curled on her side, eyes closed and a worry line carved between her eyebrows. Her fists are clenched tight and her mouth is drawn in a thin line. 

“Hey, you okay?” he asks. 

“M’fine, it’s just cramps,” she sighs.

“Did you take anything?” he asks.

“Just a nap,” she answers, a ghost of a smile drifts by. 

He nods and heads upstairs to the medicine cabinet to fetch the Ibuprofen and heating pad. She’s not needed either one for a while, her periods having always been sporadic. But when it does come, it arrives with a vengeance, seemingly trying to make up for all the ones she’s missed. 

He fills up a large gas station cup with ice water and seals the lid with a pop. He plugs in the heating pad and kneels in front of her, pressing his palm against the crown of her head. 

“Here, take these,” he says as he taps on her hand, gently opening her fist and depositing two white pills in her palm. He holds the plastic bendy straw to her lips and watches as she takes a long draw and swallows them. 

“Hm, thanks,” she sighs. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says, concerned. 

“Time izzit?” she asks.

“Almost 5. You want some dinner?” 

Her brow crinkles and her mouth twists as though she is fighting a wave of nausea.

“That’s a ‘no’” he says as he stands up and curls his forearms under her. 

“What’re you doing?” she nearly whimpers.

“Getting comfortable,” he says, sitting down and guiding her head into his lap. She squirms for a moment, adjusting the heating pad, pulling her hair away from her face. He rests one hand on the rise of her hip, holding the remote and the other on her head, fingertips at her temple. 

“What do you want to watch?” he asks.

“The insides of my eyelids,” she says flatly. 

“Basketball it is,” he says, landing three minutes into a Knicks game. 

She falls back to sleep as he combs his fingers through her hair. The sky slowly darkens outside, leaving them in the blue glow of the TV, the sounds of squeaking tennis shoes and the play by play commentary of the announcers. He’s struggling not to whoop for his team, especially when they hit overtime. A couple of 3 pointers later, it’s over and the Knicks are shuffling off the floor in defeat. He stifles the urge to curse their shitty defense and returns his hand to Scully’s head. He pulls away, realizing how warm she is. He presses the back of his hand against his own forehead for comparison and back to hers again. She’s got a fever. 

“Scully,” he whispers, jostling her shoulder. “Scully, wake up.” 

She groans a little, but does not wake. His heart starts to thud. 

“Scully,” he says, no longer whispering. “Come on, we gotta get you to the ER.”

“M’fine,” she mumbles. 

“Are you still hurting?” he asks as he carefully maneuvers out from under her kneels in front of the couch so he can get a good look at her face. 

Her eyes, red rimmed and glassy, open in narrow slits and he can see that she’s not quite there with him. 

“Scully, honey, talk to me,” he says, pulling the blazing heating pad away and gently pressing his fingers on her belly. 

She hisses in pain and recoils, folding in on herself. 

“It must be my appendix,” she breathes behind clenched teeth. 

“Hang on,” he says, leaving her just a moment. He returns with a blanket over his shoulder, stuffing his phone in his back pocket and clipping his keys to his belt loop. He drops the blanket over her and scoops her up. She cries out softly and buries her head under his collarbone. 

Scully weighs a buck ten with her pockets full of change, so the trip from the house to the car is a quick one. He lays her in the back seat where she curls into a ball, starting to tremble with fever and pain. 

When they arrive at the ER, he pulls right up to the doors, which she chides him for. 

“Th’ door’s for first responder vehicles,” she grits out. 

“I got a badge and a gun. Who’s gonna tell me to move?” he says throws the shifter into “park” and hops out, waving frantically for help. 

Under the artificial lights of the ER hallway, he can see just how pale she is, and it scares him. He flashes on bloody noses, Scully slipping away like a dream he can’t quite remember. Too many hospitals with her, too many times he’s wondered if this is where he’d have to say goodbye. 

He marches along side the gurney as she’s wheeled through the corridor. They park her in one of the vacant rooms and a doctor arrives relatively quickly as a nurse is attempting to get an IV started. There is quiet talk of an x ray, perhaps a sonogram, but Scully is having none of it.

“It’s my appendix,” she nearly growls. “I have lower right quadrant pain, a high fever and rebounding.”

There’s more mumbling, something about doctors being terrible patients. He really isn’t listening. He can only see her, curled on her side, jaw clenched tight. The nurse is busy taping her IV line to her hand, which is the only thing stopping him from holding it. 

“I want a laparoscopy, better recovery time,” she announces, her voice weak. 

The general surgeon eyes her for a moment and then nods in agreement. “Let’s get her up to surgery before that thing ruptures and we have a real mess on our hands.”

She seems to relax a little and reaches out blindly. He grasps her hand and crouches close to the bed. 

She opens her eyes and offers him a half-hearted smile. 

“This is a simple procedure,” she whispers. “I’ll be in recovery in an hour and home by tomorrow.”

He didn’t even realize that his heart had been very nearly galloping this whole time until she calmed him with a few words. How does she do that? It doesn’t matter. He’s just grateful that she does. 

He stays with her until they won’t let him anymore. He kisses her hand, her cheek, her forehead, her lips. 

“Come back to me, okay?”

“Don’t I always?” she whispers. 

And they wheel her away. He stands there for a long time, until a nurse directs him to the waiting and offers him a lukewarm cup of coffee. 

She was right. A little over an hour later, she’s resting in a private room, slightly giggly from pain killers. 

She opens one eye, chuckles a little and pats his forearm. 

“You forgot sunscreen,” she says.


End file.
